By Dorothy Wordsworth[395]

A twofold harmony is here; I listen with the bodily ear, But dull and cheerless is the sound Contrasted with the heart’s rebound.

Now at the close of fervid June, Upon this breathless hazy noon, I seek the deepest darkest shade Within the covert of that glade,

Which you and I first named our own When primroses were fully blown, Oaks just were budding, and the grove Rang with the gladdest songs of love.

Then did the Leader of the Band, A gallant thrush, maintain his stand Unshrouded from the eye of day Upon yon Beech’s topmost spray.

Within the selfsame lofty tree A thrush sings now--perchance ’tis he-- The lusty joyous gallant bird, Which on that April morn we heard.

But oh! how different that voice Which bade the very hills rejoice. Through languid air, through leafy boughs It falls, and can no echo rouse.

But on the workings of my heart Doth memory act a busy part; That jocund April morn lives there, Its cheering sounds, its hues so fair.

Why mixes with remembrance blithe What nothing but the restless scythe Of Death can utterly destroy, A heaviness, a dull alloy?

Ah Friend! thy heart can answer why. Even then I heaved a bitter sigh, No word of sorrow did’st thou speak, But tears stole down thy tremulous cheek.

The wished for hour at length was come, And thou had’st housed me in thy home, On fair Gwerndwffnant’s billowy hill, Had’st led me to its crystal rill,

And led me through the dingle deep Up to the highest grassy steep, The sheep walk where the snow-white lambs Sported beside their quiet dams.

But thou wert destined to remove From all these objects of thy love, In this thy later day to roam Far off, and seek another home.

Now thou art gone--belike ’tis best-- And I remain a passing guest, Yet for thy sake, beloved Friend, When from this spot my way shall tend,

And if my timid soul might dare To shape the future in its prayer, Then fervently would I entreat Our gracious God to guide thy feet Back to the peaceful sunny cot, Where thou so oft hast blessed thy lot.

I owe my knowledge of this and the following poem to the nephew of Mrs. Wordsworth, the Reverend Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, Herefordshire, who wrote: “The two following poems were found among his papers on the demise of Mr. Monkhouse--a first cousin of Wordsworth; the first in the hand-writing of Wordsworth’s wife, and the second of her daughter.”--ED.